


The Lays of Ancient Rome

by fredbassett



Series: Stephen/Ryan series [23]
Category: Primeval
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Involves sheep, shagging and a game of Twenty Questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Somewhere on the South Downs**

Stephen Hart was lying comfortably on his stomach on a hillside, propped up on his elbows, chewing idly on a grass-stalk and keeping a wary eye out for sheep-ticks.

Captain Ryan was lying next to him, sliding a well-lubricated finger slowly in and out of his lover’s arse and observing, with intense concentration, the effect it was having on Stephen’s breathing.

Every time the finger slid in, the other man’s breath caught, just a fraction, in the back of his throat, as though he wanted to moan, but kept holding it back.

It was during the quiet times like this that Ryan cursed Mrs Helen Bloody Cutter even more than usual for the fucked up mess she’d left behind her that masqueraded as one of her former students.

Hart was in his element when he was acting the slut. A role he played to perfection. In that guise he could relax, abandoning restraint in a way that Ryan usually found positively intoxicating. But it was during moments like this that Hart found it harder to just be himself, to let go of the bad habits his first serious lover had foisted onto him.

Be quiet. Don’t cuddle. Stop talking. No, not like that, like this. Don’t crowd me. Keep your distance.

Ryan let another drop of gun-oil drip down as he prepared to gently ease a second finger into place. Not that Hart needed gentleness.

He heard the slight catch in the other man’s breath again, but Hart still didn’t make any noise. He just carried on twirling the grass stalk in his fingers and staring intently at the bright shards of the anomaly hanging in the air at the head of the dry valley in front of them.

The soldier knew that all he needed to do get an instant reaction was increase the pace and add another finger or two, but that wasn’t what Ryan wanted right now. He wanted to be sure that he wasn’t just getting Hart’s usual well-honed pain/pleasure response. 

They had tricks like that off pat. That wasn’t what they needed to work on.

There were times when Ryan wanted more than just a frantic shag. They had plenty of those, and he enjoyed them, but he liked the quiet times too. He wanted more of Hart’s soft kitten mewls.

His finger drifted slowly and lightly over what he knew was exactly the right spot. That drew more than a slight catch of breath. There was now a definite interruption in the previously steady inhale, exhale pattern of Hart’s breathing.

Another drop of oil and then the second finger finally slid in. Soft, gliding. In, out. Occasionally massaging and rubbing along the deep cleft, then back in, to delicious tightness and heat.

Stephen was naked from the waist down. The only reason he still had his shirt on was collective amnesia on the subject of sunscreen.

Ryan, by contrast, was fully dressed. His only concession to the heat had been unzipping the heavy tac vest and unbuttoning the top of his shirt.

He was steadily ignoring his own erection. They had two hours left before Lyle and Cutter were due back, there’d be time enough to deal with that later.

“Favourite colour?”

The question took Stephen by surprise and he looked back over one shoulder, blue eyes wide and questioning. “Eh?”

The fingers twisted slightly and converted the next breath into something closely resembling a hiccup.

“Don’t say eh, darling. It’s not polite. Didn’t they teach you any manners at school?”

“I don’t recall off-hand anything being said about the polite way to sound puzzled when a guy’s got two fingers up your ass stroking your prostate, no.” He sighed and decided to play along, “You’d better try that one on me again, Ryan.”

The fingers continued their inexorable glide, just a fraction harder, but still teasingly gentle. “What’s your favourite colour?”

“Green. Dark green.”

Stephen was rewarded, briefly, with the intrusion of a third finger.

“Now ask me one.”

“One what?”

“A personal question, fuckwit, what do you think I meant?”

“You want to play Twenty Questions while you’re finger-fucking me?”

“Yes. My turn, now. Something you hated at school?”

“Oi, you cheated, it was my turn!”

“Shut up and stop glaring at me. Watch the pretty anomaly and answer the question.”

He scissored his fingers, stretching Stephen gently, and deepening the thrusts.

Hart’s head dipped for a moment onto the grass and it looked like he was having a slight problem concentrating. Ryan carried on probing and stretching, movements slow and languorous, listening to his lover’s breathing deepen with every stroke.

Stephen dragged in another breath, propped himself up on his elbows again, and replied, “School plays.”

Ryan’s chuckle ran all the way down through his arm and into his hand and made Stephen press up and back onto the strong fingers. Ryan’s hand stopped moving. His lover sighed and took the hint. No demanding. Just lie there and play the game.

“Don’t tell me you always had to play Prince Charming?” Ryan didn’t bother to hide his amusement.

“Yep, and Cinderella, otherwise known as Janey Bristow, had verruca’s. And her feet smelt. It was probably the ointment, but as a thirteen year old, I wasn’t for giving her the benefit of the doubt. OK, my turn ……….. something you like doing in bed that isn’t connected with sex?”

“Cheat. You know the answer to that.”

“You like drinking coffee there as well!”

“Yes, but you know I’ll go for a bacon butty every time. Ask again.”

By way of encouragement, Ryan increased the pace of his stroking just fractionally until he felt Stephen’s hips pressing down into the black combat jacket they were using for a blanket.

Ryan sighed. The damn thing had enough stains on it already. The words collateral damage came incongruously to mind.

Stephen interrupted his thoughts. “Your wedding. Church or Registry Office?”

It crossed Ryan’s mind that the question might be his lover’s way of bringing the game to an end. If so, Hart’d have to think again. Ryan wasn’t that easily deterred from his objectives.

He lent over and licked a long wet trail down the younger man’s lower back, ending up nuzzling and kissing the crease at the top of his thigh. It was a bit of a contortion to keep up the finger movement at the same time, but he succeeded.

“Church. And for your bonus answer, I was in uniform.” There, that surprised you, didn’t it? “My turn. First time you shagged a bloke. Where?”

Hart squirmed and Ryan didn’t think that it was as a result of his finger action on this occasion.

“In the bog, on a train, on the way to London.”

Now that did open possibilities for future conversation, but not just yet ……….. not while Stephen Hart was still talking and even more surprisingly, still enjoying himself without even registering a 1 on the pain scale.

That answer clearly merited reward, so, slowly and lazily, Ryan withdrew his fingers, and dribbled more warm gun-oil where it was needed. He lazily shifted position over Stephen, taking his weight on his arms and sliding himself very, very slowly inside his lover, inch by gentle, insistent inch.

Two hundred press-ups a day made this sort of thing a doddle for Ryan, a fact the soldier liked to take advantage of as often as he could, although it really was taking every bit of his concentration right now to stay gentle, to keep it slow ……..

Stephen let out a long moan of pure pleasure and Ryan found it even harder to keep to the same pace. The little sod was trying to provoke him. And was damn nearly succeeding.

“Come on, it’s your turn.” He needed a distraction and he needed it quickly ……….

Hart’s next question provided exactly that. “First line of a poem you really hate?”

That worked ………. and took him straight back to English classes at school.

“I wandered lonely as a cloud ………. always thought that was fucking pretentious crap. Why the hell would a cloud be lonely? It’s only sodding water vapour.”

Stephen started laughing and the movement threatened to destroy Ryan’s composure.

“Oh Christ, I can just see you in school debating the merits of Wordsworth ……..”

It was no good, he wasn’t going to be able to keep this slow for much longer, not with Hart’s laughter still causing his ass muscles to clench deliciously around Ryan’s cock, sending jolts of pleasure straight through his brain.

Then the laughter came to an abrupt halt as Ryan altered his angle and started to unerringly stoke the same spot each time he moved.

Still gentle, still so bloody gentle, but suddenly Stephen felt like he was coming apart at the seams and it was so good that all he could do was let himself sink down fully onto the grass and just lie there letting Ryan fuck him.

Fuck him more slowly and more gently than he’d ever been fucked by anyone, and for once, Stephen never wanted it to end. He didn’t need a climax to make him feel good, this was enough just by itself. And he wanted it to go on forever …….

Ryan knew he’d finally succeeded in breaking down his lover’s barriers when Hart started making those small noises again, the ones Ryan knew had been made first for him and for him alone.

Noises that made his own insides shimmer into a golden haze of pleasure ………. noises that he longed to be able to draw out of the other man whenever he wanted, without having to hurt him. The way he’d done the first time they’d made love. The way he was doing now.

Stephen’s orgasm took both of them by surprise and for once it didn’t seem to slam into the younger man with the usual toe-curling intensity. Instead it felt more like a ripple on a pond that started small and just spread wider and wider until it had covered the whole surface of Hart’s body, inside and out, until Ryan could feel him trembling with pleasure.

And he didn’t even try to squirm against Ryan’s tac-vest the way he usually did. He just led there, boneless and quivering, making very small, very quiet, hiccupping noises, like a whole basketful of kittens just after they’d been fed.

Ryan was concentrating so much on his blue-eyed lover that he almost forgot about himself until the final tremors running through Stephen’s body tipped him over the edge. His hips gave an involuntary jerk and then he came as well, with a quiet gasp, his mouth buried in the other man’s short black hair, his breath warm on his neck.

When the final tremors had died away from both of them, Ryan slid sideways, pillowing his head on one outstretched arm and running his other hand lazily up and down Hart’s side, from hip to chest, enjoying the feel of sun-warmed skin under his fingers.

Stephen shuffled backwards, pressing himself lightly against his lover, eyes closed, face flushed from the combined effects of sun and sex, comfortable and relaxed.

He was hovering on the edge of sleep when Ryan said, “Hart, what sort of sheep did they have in the Carboniferous or whenever?”

“No sheep,” muttered Stephen, lazily. “Don’t you ever listen to Connor?”

“Not if I can help it,” muttered Ryan, unfairly and untruthfully. “So if they didn’t have sheep in the whenever, why the fuck has one just wandered out of that anomaly?”

“We’re on a hillside covered with the bloody things.” Stephen pointed out, rolling over and starting to nuzzle his lover’s neck.

Ryan sighed. “I know I’ve said it before, Hart, but it’s true. You really are an unobservant little shit, especially when you’re thinking with your dick. The only sheep we’ve seen since we left the van were in the fields by the road. And they were white and sheep-like. This one’s brown and goat-like.”

“So it’s a goat. They didn’t have those in the Carboniferous either. But they do have ‘em in Southern England. OK?”

A sharp slap on his arse woke him up.

“Not OK. There’s another one. In fact there’s a whole fucking herd of the little bleeders. Clean up and get dressed …….”

Stephen opened his eyes in irritation, but his complaint died on his lips.

Ryan was right.

There were sheep, and they were coming through the anomaly. Not round it, or past it, but through it.

They had horns, as well. 

They were also remarkably reluctant to go back through the anomaly.

And they were very good at using their horns when they didn’t want to do something.

They were the sort of horns that could do a considerable amount of damage. After the third near miss with his groin, Stephen started taking the stubborn little sods a bit more seriously.

It was hot, and getting hotter and they still had three of the horned bastards to herd back towards the anomaly.

He found himself contemplating the Monty Python line about the dangers of clever sheep, but somehow it didn’t strike him as funny any more.

Ten minutes later, the last one stood about three metres away from the broken shards of light, eying them with the sort of look that spoke volumes.

The sort of look which said, Come on, have a go if you think you’re hard enough!

“Bugger this for a lark,” muttered Ryan. “Can’t I just shoot it? Lamb chops are nice.”

Stephen was tempted, he really was, but he was damned if he was going to be outwitted by something that would taste extremely nice with mint sauce.

He also very much regretted the loss of his dart gun last week to an irate mammoth.

“No. Cutter’d throw a fit.”

“We don’t have to tell him.”

“Shut up and start herding!”

It took another ten minutes before Ryan finally lost his temper and rugby tackled the beast, damn nearly losing an eye to a horn in the process. Stephen lunged forward, grabbing its head before Ryan dealt with the problem with his customary efficiency and simply broke its neck.

Between them, they man-handled an extremely disgruntled ovine back though the anomaly and dropped it.

Dropped it onto short grass. Grass that wasn’t particularly different from the grass they’d just left behind them.

Ryan looked around and delivered an unarguable verdict. “It isn’t fucking Kansas, Toto.”


	2. Chapter 2

Stephen Hart looked around, plainly puzzled.

“It’s not the fucking Carboniferous either,” he said, quietly. “Ryan, it didn’t look like this through here three hours ago.”

The Special Forces leader had automatically shouldered his rifle in the expectation of a threat.

Apart from a scattered herd of dark brown horned sheep, he didn’t find one.

The landscape looked not wholly dissimilar to the one they’d just left behind. Short grass, yellowish, drier than the stuff they’d just been lying on, but grass nonetheless.

Normal, common or garden grass.

Stephen bent down and ran his fingers through it. It felt like grass as well. Which meant it probably was grass.

And the things he was looking at, less than half a mile away, were trees. The sort of trees that he felt he should recognise, but couldn’t quite name.

“Why isn’t it the Carboniferous?” asked Ryan, carefully.

“I rather suspect that on this occasion, your guess is as good as mine,” muttered Stephen, matching the soldier’s caution. “Ryan, we ought to step straight back through that thing and wait for Cutter.”

“Something’s moving ……….. over there.” Ryan’s voice was quiet and dangerous. He flicked the safe catch off the rifle and went down smoothly on one knee, taking careful aim at the source of the movement.

From behind the cover of the trees, a large animal started to emerge. White, horned …………. and dragging a cart.

“It’s a bloody ox,” said Stephen, in the same tone of voice that someone might have used to say It’s a ghost.

“Well, at least it’s not a fucking unicorn,” the soldier sounded faintly relieved.

“And there’s a kid on the other side of the cart!”

Ryan took a hand off the rifle long enough to fumble in a pocket and shove a pair of small, powerful binoculars at the other man.

He didn’t find Hart’s sharp intake of breath comforting.

“They look like refugees...there’s stuff on the cart...household things...shit, there’s another one...a woman with a baby...blood...the kid’s hurt, Ryan...the woman’s crying...here the fuck are we?”

He actually meant when the fuck are we, but he suspected the other man knew what he meant.

Ryan ignored the question. “We’re too exposed here, make for the trees. We can assess things from there. Move!”

And then they were running. Towards the trees, away from the anomaly.

Breaking every rule in the goddamn book. And seemingly not caring. Because there were human beings here.

The trees were in a fact a narrow strip of woodland running along the edge of a steep valley. By the time the two men reached the cover, another three wagons had made the climb up a rutted dirt track. It was painfully obvious that whoever these people were, they were fleeing a conflict of some sort, with whatever meagre possessions they’d been able to salvage.

As soon as they reached the edge of the trees it was clear that there was a fight going on, and that it was somewhere close at hand. 

Harsh voices rose on the still air. Cries and yells in a language that neither Stephen nor Ryan could make out. But it didn’t take a linguistics expert to interpret the shrill shriek of a human being in agony.

Ryan grabbed Stephen’s arm, slowing him down, preventing a headlong dash down the hillside.

A river wound its way beneath them, glittering brightly in what Stephen thought was probably late afternoon sunlight. The water was maybe ten metres across, fast flowing and dangerous. Spanned by a narrow wooden bridge.

The last of the carts, this one pulled by a horse rather than an ox had just crossed and a small group of men, no more than twenty maybe, were trying desperately to cover the retreat. To buy time for a ragged cavalcade of what seemed to be women, children and the elderly, to make the slow climb up the hillside.

The men were outnumbered, facing a milling mob, some on horseback, but most on foot. Armed with short stabbing swords, spears and bows.

Outnumbered was an understatement. A painful, sick understatement.

Two of the mob held one man by his arms. Blood streamed from a deep wound in his side. More covered his face. A broken bow lay in the scuffed dirt at his feet.

“They’ve blinded him, they’ve fucking blinded him,” breathed Stephen in horror.

Before either of them could react, a man on a horse leant down and raked a knife casually across the captive’s throat. Blood splashed out in a red spray, to the accompaniment of more incomprehensible yells and a great deal of laughter.

“I don’t like their sense of humour,” said Ryan, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Stephen wasn’t sure what had shocked him most. The callous act of murder or the fact that Ryan was about to break the most fundamental rule of all.

Do nothing to affect history. Leave nothing behind you. Don’t get involved.

Then before Stephen had a chance to say, or do, anything, Ryan swung round, rifle pointing into the trees now.

At that point Stephen Hart decided he must be dreaming.

OK, it was a vivid dream, with wrap-around sound, and full technicolour, but it sure as hell had to be a dream, because if it wasn’t, then what the fuck was the explanation for the guy wearing a black frock-coat, a starched white high-collar and a very puzzled expression, who was picking his way fastidiously towards them through the wood.

The black top hat held in the man’s hand was the final straw.

Stephen gave a shaky laugh. “It’s just a dream, Ryan.”

He hated dreams like this, where you knew it was a dream, but you still couldn’t wake up.

He had to admit, though, that Ryan didn’t seem convinced by his explanation.

“Fine. If it’s just a dream, then there’s nothing to stop me shooting those fuckers down there, is there?” 

Stephen wasn’t quite sure how to answer that one.

He bent down, grabbed a stick and jabbed it into the back of his hand. It hurt. That wasn’t a good sign. Things didn’t usually hurt in dreams. He began to wonder if he was just going mad. That might be a better explanation.

In spite of that thought, he still felt the need to do something constructive. That was the problem with dreams. You couldn’t always just ignore them.

The newcomer didn’t look dangerous, but it wouldn’t hurt to give the Browning an airing, just in case.

If anything, the man looked even more dazed than Stephen felt. His eyes had a glazed expression that spoke of a close and recent acquaintance with alcohol and the careful way he picked a course through the undergrowth told the same story.

Wonderful. Just wonderful. He’s drunk. I’m mad. And if we’re not, then Ryan’s about to change the course of history. Bit of a no win situation, really.

Part of his mind was telling him, loudly and insistently, that even staying here this long was a bad idea, a very bad idea and what they really should be doing was getting back though the anomaly while they still had the chance. The other part of his mind just kept reminding him that all he really needed to do was just wake up.

“How did you get here?” Stephen asked, unable to rid himself of the idea that talking to a drunkard in a dream wasn’t the most sensible thing he’d ever done.

The man in the black coat looked vague and muttered, “A moon of light in the noon of night.”

Which only served to confirm his original theory. Drunk.

Ryan dragged his eyes away from the scene in the valley, his face creased into the sort of frown that usually sent his men scuttling for cover. “Well, you weren’t guided here by the wheel of fucking fortune, mate, so I’m guessing you walked through a big, bright shiny thing, right?”

“A faery beam?”

“Nope, not quite.” Ryan’s expression lightened just for a moment, and a slight grin quirked his lips, “But the boy with the boy wouldn’t go amiss right now. Hart, keep an eye on our friend here and while you’re at it tell me if you see anyone chasing a white rabbit. If that happens, it’s time to leave.”

The events in the valley weren’t getting any prettier. The brief glance that Stephen allowed himself was enough to turn his stomach. Another of the defenders on the bridge had just fallen. The mob swarmed forward and the other men were forced to give ground.

There were no more than half of the original twenty still standing.

Stephen saw one man trying to crawl away from the fight, trying to follow the wagons. He was crawling because he only seemed to have one leg left and the snail trail of blood behind him told its own story. A spear took the injured man in the side and he stopped crawling.

Every time a man fell, the cheers of the attackers got louder.

The crack of Ryan’s rifle sounded loud amongst the trees, but no-one in the valley seemed to notice. The majority of them were too busy screaming and gloating. The others were too busy just trying to stay alive.

Stephen had a strong feeling that Ryan really shouldn’t be doing this, even if it was only in a dream.

With an effort of will, he dragged his eyes back to the man he was meant to be watching

“You can stop pointing that weapon at me, young man, I’m quite harmless.” The words were spoken slowly and carefully.

A second rifle shot claimed their attention.

One of the attackers fell from the bridge into the fast flowing water.

The man on the horse who’d slit the prisoner’s throat threw his head back and laughed. It was pretty much obvious he didn’t give a stuff about his own men, either.

Half a dozen spears and a volley of arrows flew through the air.

Four more defenders fell.

Ryan really didn’t like the way the guy on the horse kept laughing, but right now he wasn’t the most immediate threat. The archers and the spear-men were.

Five well placed shots followed each other in rapid succession.

The man with the top hat stared intently at the soldier.

“Either that rather strange looking rifle is less accurate than it looks, or you aren’t shooting to kill, my good man.” The stranger’s voice was calm, almost detached.

Stephen’s eye’s widened. Why the hell hadn’t he noticed that? Maybe the man wasn’t as drunk as he’d first thought.

Each of Ryan’s shots had been disabling, to a shoulder, an arm or a leg, but none had been immediately fatal. The man with the top hat had been right about that. Maybe the Special Forces captain had slightly more concern for the course of history than Stephen had given him credit for.

Either that or he was working on the principle that wounding an enemy was more resource heavy for your opponent than a straight kill. You couldn’t always tell, with Ryan, what his motives were.

But there were more attackers than even the Special Forces captain could account for by his current methods, whatever the reasoning. Three more of the defenders had fallen. A fourth had been injured and was being dragged back towards the mob.

That left only two men still standing on this side of the bridge. Even with Ryan’s intervention, it didn’t look like they stood a cat in hell’s chance.

_“To every man upon this earth_  
Death cometh soon or late  
And how can man die better  
Than facing fearful odds,” 

The stranger’s voice was quiet, barely audible over the noises reaching them from the valley.

Another rifle shot interrupted the monologue.

“He can die at home in bed, maybe with someone he loves holding his hand, so don’t give me any of that bollocks,” snapped Ryan. “You ask that poor sod down there what he thinks of the temples of his fucking gods right now and I bet you wouldn’t find the answer very poetic.”

He took careful aim, face flint-hard with certainty, and put a bullet straight between the eyes of the sadistic bastard on the horse.

The soldier’s next two shots hit the men closest to the struggling captive.

Their one-time prisoner hurled himself back across the bridge, snatching a spear off the ground, rolling and coming to his feet in a movement Stephen had seen Ryan’s lads make more times than he could remember.

The three surviving defenders stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting for what still looked like certain death.

It took another few shots from Ryan before the attackers realised that stepping onto the bridge was a bad idea. They still hadn’t worked out exactly what was happening, but the fact anyone who tried to cross the bridge ended up with a hole in them was a pretty big disincentive to further attempts.

And without the man on the horse to urge them on, the attackers soon started to slink away into the shadows of the gathering dusk.

_“In yon straight path a thousand,  
May well be stopped by three.”_

Ryan glanced at the speaker, his eyes tired. “More bollocks. The bridge was too wide for that. They would have died.”

“I bow to your greater experience,” said the man, smiling for the first time. “Alas, it may be too late to make such a change to my ramblings. Thomas and William are rather more stringent than their dear father was on the subject of publication deadlines.”

An answering smile lightened Ryan’s face. “Good. I’d hate to think I’d changed history in more ways than one today.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “Do I take it that Horatius and his comrades are not doomed to languish forever unread on dusty shelves?”

Ryan’s smile slid into a grin, “We’re not all as illiterate as Hart, that’s for sure, sir.”

Stephen wondered how far his tenuous grasp on reality would have to slip before he finally plummeted back to earth and woke up. “Excuse me, you were the one objecting to daffodils earlier on...”

The man in the black frock coat let out a surprised bark of laughter, “I cannot disagree with that sentiment, no matter how popular Mr Wordsworth might be with the ladies.” He made a flourish in the air with his top hat. “Gentleman, it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, although I could have wished for happier circumstances. I now intend to find my way home and finish getting exceedingly drunk. I have seen some things that I would prefer to forget. Might I venture to suggest that you both do the same?”

With that, he bowed, and turned back into the woods.

Five minutes later Stephen stood with Ryan in a rapidly darkening landscape, watching the last of the wagons disappear into the distance.

“Do you really read poetry?” he asked, as they turned towards what they hoped was home. It seemed a safer question than the ones he actually wanted to ask.

“Faber Book of Children’s Verse,” admitted Ryan. “I’m word-perfect in whole chunks of the bloody thing. Vicky liked the ones about faeries. I used to read the military stuff after she’d gone to sleep.”

And with that, he grabbed his lover’s hand and they stepped through the shards of broken light.

Bright sun replaced the shadows and the familiar rolling landscape spread out before them like a welcome mat.

Ryan made no attempt to disguise the look of relief on his face.

“Hart, do me a favour. Shag me senseless, will you? Then at least I’ll have an excuse for not knowing which way’s up.”

Stephen grinned, blue eyes wide and inviting, “If this is still a dream, can I fuck you without the oil?”

* * *

Stephen was hovering on the edge of sleep when Ryan’s voice cut through post-coital languor like a hot knife through butter, “Hart! Clothes, now!”

They barely had time to scramble their way to some semblance of decency, before they heard Lyle’s voice announcing loudly, “Told you we’d catch ‘em at it, Professor!”

Then the lieutenant started laughing so hard that Stephen thought the soldier was in danger of choking.

And Cutter joined in.

Stephen started to wonder which of them had left their trousers undone. He tried not to look down.

Ryan wasn’t so inhibited.

He shot a quick glance across at Stephen’s groin and the retort he’d been intending to chuck back at Lyle died in his throat.

A large tuft of brown wool was caught on his lover’s belt.

He began to get a really, really bad feeling about the afternoon.  


**A bar. Several hours later.**

Stephen wondered just how many sheep shagging jokes could possibly be left in the world that he hadn’t heard yet.

He swore Lyle was getting Connor to look them up on the internet.

Ryan had long since given up any attempt at retaliation and was concentrating on getting drunk. And he clearly had no intention of discussing the wool. Not even with Stephen.

It had been a dream, hadn’t it?

But there was still one thing nagging at the back of Stephen’s mind that he needed to clear up before he could put his memories of the afternoon down to an over-active imagination.

“Lyle, what’s Ryan’s daughter called?”

Because Stephen knew, with absolute certainty, that he had never, ever, heard Ryan, or anyone else for that matter, refer to the child by name. Not on this side of a moon of light, anyway.

Two people couldn’t have the same dream at the same time, could they? Could they?

“Victoria.” Lyle failed to disguise the flash of sympathy in his eyes. “He normally calls her Vicky.”

After that Ryan wasn’t the only one determined to drink himself into oblivion.

Stephen made up for lost ground with all the single minded determination of a man with something to forget.

And they were both agreed on one thing. Lester wasn’t getting a report on their afternoon activities. At least not until they’d managed to concoct a more convincing story.

One that didn’t involve sheep, bridges, poetry or poets.

For that to be successful, Stephen rather suspected they’d both need to be sober at the same time, and that wasn’t likely to happen any time soon. 

* * *

What neither of them knew was that Lyle had picked Stephen’s pocket on the way back down the hill.

The tuft of wool was now in Cutter’s possession, pending further analysis.

But the soldier and the scientist were both starting to think that this might just be one report that Lester wasn’t going to get...

There were probably some things that even Her Majesty’s Government and its employees were better off not knowing. For everyone’s sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two poems quoted in this story:
> 
> 1\. Gipsy Song by Ben Jonson
> 
> The faery beam upon you,  
> The stars to glister on you:  
> A moon of light  
> In the noon of night,  
> Till the fire-drake hath o’ergone you!  
> The wheel of fortune guide you,  
> The boy with the bow beside you;  
> Run aye in the way  
> Till the bird of day,  
> And the luckier lot betide you!
> 
>  
> 
> 2\. Horatius by Thomas Babington Macaulay, from the Lays of Ancient Rome.
> 
> This tells the story of how Horatius and his two comrades held the bridge against the armies of Lars Porsena of Clusium.
> 
> The most famous lines are probably the ones Macaulay quotes in this fic :
> 
> Then out spake brave Horatius,  
> The Captain of the Gate  
> ‘To every man upon this earth  
> Death cometh soon or late  
> And how can man die better  
> Than facing fearful odds,  
> For the ashes of his fathers  
> And the temples of his Gods.’
> 
> The full text can be found here: http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Horatius
> 
> The Faber Book of Children’s Verse complied by Janet Adam Smith is just wonderful!
> 
> I have absolutely no idea why this damned fic wouldn’t leave me in peace until I’d written and posted it. But as I said in a chat with Rodlox, many months ago, what the hell is it about bridge!fic that’s capable of biting the brain like this? 
> 
> And if only Ryan had been sniping near the Bridge of Kazad-dum at a certain time, we might all have been saved a lot of angst!


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